April 13
It has been exactly one year since we had to say goodbye to Vicky. Beyond our own memories, the rich and loving words of others in describing Vicky have inspired us and continue to inspire us. We share some today:
Lena Argiri, Kathimerini, April 14, 2025
One last goodbye for Vicky Zemenides
Vicky, the girl with the most beautiful, flowing curls in the world, is not here anymore. I remember how she let them go without shedding a single tear when, a year and a half ago, she learned she would begin chemotherapy. “They will grow back when I get better” she reassured us in that calm, unwavering way, only the truly brave can.
Last summer, she believed she was better. We all did. She came to Greece, radiant under the sun, delicate, beautiful, kind, soft-spoken. Carrying her grace, her optimism, her deep scars.
As if she didn’t quite belong to this world. And maybe she didn’t. Maybe she was already preparing to leave it. That’s why she seemed almost weightless. And just like that, she slipped away on Sunday.
In these past few months, the illness gave no ground. It showed no mercy. It brought Vicky- our rock, our voice of reason, the steady force who brought balance and strength- to her knees. In everyday battles, in national ones, and most of all, in her own, she fought with courage.
“It is what it is” she had started saying toward the end, a phrase that held the quiet weight of surrender, not defeat. It spoke of exhaustion, of peace-making with pain, of someone who had given all her strength and was finally ready to rest.
Over these last months, she became our symbol of strength and at the same time, of our deepest anxieties, our quiet, unspoken fears.
Vicky leaves behind a void, in our hearts, in our family, in our world.
But she also leaves behind three wonderful and beautiful children. And I know, as she whispered goodbye, she had no doubt. George, Dimitris, and Irini would go on to do great things. Her values, her strength, her kindness, her courage, are their inheritance.
And they have their father, Endy. Be strong my dear friend to guide them. And please don’t forget, you did everything a human possibly could, and even more.
* * * * *
Eulogy for Vicky Zemenides
Delivered by His Eminence Metropolitan Nathanael of Chicago
Holy Thursday Morning, 2025
Christ is Risen! Χριστός Ἀνέστη!
Yes—I know what you’re thinking. “Wait… it’s not Pascha yet.” In fact, it’s Holy Thursday morning. Today, our Orthodox Church leads us to the mystery of the Cross. We remember the Lord’s betrayal, His arrest, His trial, and the pain He willingly embraced for the life of the world.
And yet, even today, I say to you: Christ is Risen.
Because for those who live in Christ, the Resurrection is not a moment on a liturgical calendar. It is a way of being. It is a truth lived daily. And Vicky Zemenides lived the Resurrection—in her love, her joy, her suffering, and even in her death. Her entire life bore witness to this reality: that death does not have the final word.
Most of us wait for Holy Pascha to proclaim, “Christ is Risen.” But Vicky lived as though Pascha had already come. And so, it is right—even necessary—that we proclaim it today.
Author Richard Rohr once wrote: “Everything between here and heaven is heaven, and everything between here and hell is hell.”
Vicky chose heaven. Not a far-off promise, but a present reality. She found heaven in her relationships, her work, her family, her laughter, and her suffering. She walked through life grounded in the peace that only comes from the Risen Christ.
She showed us that Resurrection is not a single dramatic moment—it is a thousand quiet ones. In fact, Richard Rohr says it this way:
“We don’t need to wait for death to experience resurrection. We can begin resurrection today by living connected to God. Resurrection happens every time we love someone even though they were not very loving to us… Every time we decide to trust and begin again, even after repeated failures… We don’t have to wait for it later. Resurrection is always possible now. The Resurrection is not Jesus’ private miracle; it’s the new shape of reality.”
Vicky found that peace especially in the life she shared with her beloved husband, Endy. Their love was not something they had to work hard to describe—it was obvious to anyone who saw them together. It was a love full of laughter, teasing, strength, and deep companionship. It was rooted in mutual respect and made holy through daily acts of care. Their marriage was not only a partnership—it was a testimony. They were σύζυγοι—yoke-bearers—walking side by side, carrying the weight of life together with grace.
That yoke became heavier in this past year, as Vicky was diagnosed with cancer. But even then—especially then—she never once complained. She carried her suffering with dignity. She remained present for her children and her husband. She continued to show up, to give, to comfort others—even as her own body fought a quiet war. She refused to let pain isolate her. She chose love over self-pity, faith over fear, and presence over retreat. That was her resurrection life: rising each day, even in suffering, because she trusted the One who had conquered death.
And then, unexpectedly—just days ago—Vicky suffered a sudden stroke. Though cancer had begun to take its toll, no one expected her journey to end so swiftly. She had been looking forward, still planning, still hoping, still fighting. She had her beloved Endy by her side, as always, and those who knew her best believe she was still dreaming of tomorrow. Her mind was still in the battle. Her heart was still anchored in hope.
But it was Palm Sunday—the day our Lord entered Jerusalem, not to be crowned with gold, but with thorns. The day the crowds cried out, “Hosanna!” expecting a Messiah who would conquer the Romans. And yet, Christ came not to defeat an earthly enemy, but to trample down death.
And Vicky—our beloved friend, wife, mother, and sister—entered Jerusalem with Him. While we were cheering her on to defeat cancer, she was preparing for a different kind of victory. Not over a visible enemy, but over death itself. Just as the people of Jerusalem cried “Hosanna” with expectation, so we cried out in hope for her healing. And just as Christ defied those expectations to win a greater battle, so too Vicky, in her sudden passing, revealed the deeper promise of faith: that death is not the end.
She fell asleep on Palm Sunday. And in doing so, she walked into the arms of the One she trusted all her life.
She leaves behind her three beautiful children—Demetri, George, and Eirini. To you, her precious children, I want to say something clearly, and from the heart:
What you are feeling is real. It is right. It is holy.
There is no wrong way to grieve. You don’t need to hide your emotions or pretend to be strong. Losing your mother is devastating. You are allowed to cry. You are allowed to be angry. You are allowed to be quiet. Whatever you feel—feel it without shame. You have each other. You have your father. And you have an entire community of people—family and friends—who will help carry you through. You are not alone. And your mother’s love remains with you, always.
To Endy, I speak now as a brother in faith, and as one who has seen the weight you carried with love.
You have lost your σύζυγος—the one who helped you carry the yoke of life. For years, Vicky was by your side, lifting that weight with you—not only in the daily routines, but in the great joys and the deep sorrows. She was your partner in every true sense of the word. And now, that yoke feels heavier. But I tell you this: you will not carry it alone. Vicky, through her prayers, remains your companion. She now helps you not with her hands, but with her intercessions—carrying your heart in ways unseen. And the physical burdens? They will be carried with the help of your children, your friends, your family, and your Church. You are still yoked—now to a community, and to her spirit. And through Christ, you are never separated.
As Saint Paul writes:
If we have died with Christ, we believe that we shall also live with Him (Romans 6:8). I am convinced that neither death nor life… nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:38–39).
Vicky is now in the place where pain has no home and time has no end. She is in the light of the Resurrection. And from there, she watches over all of you—not as a shadow, but as a living presence in Christ.
So now, beloved family, friends, and faithful,
Live as Vicky lived!
Love as she loved!
Persevere!
Laugh!
Pray!
Show up for each other!
And never let the Resurrection be reduced to words. Let it be your life!
I close now with a prayer from Saint Paul—one that Vicky lived in full:
I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of His Resurrection and participation in His sufferings, becoming like Him in His death, and so, somehow, attaining to the resurrection from the dead (Philippians 3:10–11).
May this be our prayer too.
May her memory be eternal.
And may the truth Vicky lived every day be the truth we now proclaim:
Christ is Risen! Truly, He is Risen!
* * * * *
Note from Dr. Nikolaos Dallas:
My name is Nikolaos Dallas, and I was Vicky’s surgical oncologist. I see many patients who pass through my clinic, my operating room, my life. Then there are patients like Vicky. She didn’t just pass through. She stayed. She left a mark.
I first met Vicky in November of 2023. She had recently been diagnosed with an aggressive form of stomach cancer. Her symptoms were subtle at first – upper abdominal discomfort, heartburn – but the disease behind them was anything but. The scans, the biopsy, the staging… it was textbook medicine. Stage III gastric cancer. But Vicky was anything but textbook.
From the moment she walked into my office accompanied by her husband Endy, I saw something different. Not just in her demeanor, but in her presence. She had a quiet strength, a calm resolve, and a smile that refused to be dimmed by fear. That smile… it became a symbol of her resilience. It was the first thing I noticed, and the last thing I remember.
We began treatment with neoadjuvant chemotherapy. It was tough, but she endured it with grace. By January 2024, imaging showed a promising response. The tumor had shrunk, and the abnormal lymph nodes had resolved. It was a moment of hope, and Vicky embraced it fully. She didn’t celebrate loudly, she never did, but her eyes sparkled with quiet victory.
We talked at length about surgery. I explained the risks, the complications, the long road ahead. She listened, asked thoughtful questions, and made her decision with clarity. She wanted to live not just for herself, but for her children: George, Dimitri, and Irini. She wanted to be there for birthdays, graduations, loud family dinners, and family trips to Greece. She wanted time. And she was willing to fight for it.
On February 2, 2024, Vicky underwent a total gastrectomy, which involved removal of her entire stomach and placement of a temporary feeding tube. It was a major operation, but she faced it with courage. She recovered quickly, going home within a week. Her strength was astonishing, not just physical but emotional. She transitioned back to eating normally and completed her postoperative chemotherapy between March and May 2024. This round was harder. Her body was tired, her labs were off, but her spirit remained unshaken.
Then came the recurrence. A blood test revealed circulating tumor cells. The CT scan was clean, but we knew what was coming. By August, fluid in the abdomen and suspicious ovarian cysts pointed to metastatic disease. Surgery in October 2024 confirmed it: Stage IV. She continued chemotherapy, fighting with everything she had. She never complained. She never asked, “Why me?” She simply pressed forward.
On April 9, 2025, she came to the ER with malaise, bloating, rising kidney numbers. Imaging showed the tubes that drained her kidneys were blocked from pelvic disease. I saw her that day. She was tired but still smiling. She joked about her surgical scars, comparing her gastrectomy incision to her C-section. Even in pain, she found humor. Even in fear, she found grace.
We talked about prognosis. I told her the truth. Stage IV gastric cancer with symptoms is unforgiving. She knew. Patients often do. She held Endy’s hand, and I saw the quiet acceptance in her eyes. She had fought long and hard, but her body was giving out.
She underwent a procedure to relieve the obstruction. That night, she had a stroke manifesting with left-sided weakness and fluctuating mental status. She was transferred to the neurologic ICU. Over the next day, she deteriorated. Friends and family filled the waiting room. I’ve never seen so much love in one place.
On April 13, 2025, at 11 a.m., Vicky passed away. Endy was with her. She was not alone.
Vicky was more than a patient. She was a force. She was funny, kind, and fiercely strong. She loved deeply and protected fiercely. Her smile never faded… not through diagnosis, not through surgery, not through recurrence, and not even in her final days.
She shielded her children from the harsh realities of her illness, trying her best to share only the good news. She bore the weight of her diagnosis with grace, never letting it define her. She was the kind of person who made you believe in the power of love, of laughter, of quiet strength.
As a surgeon, I’m trained to fix things. But Vicky taught me that sometimes we cannot. And the most meaningful thing we can do is simply bear witness… to courage, to love, to the human spirit. She reminded me why I do this work. She reminded me that healing isn’t always about curing. Sometimes, it’s about presence. It’s about remembering.
I will remember Vicky for her strength, her love, and above all, her smile.
Conscience of a Hellene 